by Layla Hagen
"I'll bring this up another time, eat your waffle."
"James," I press.
He takes a deep breath. "I've been meaning to ask you this but we always end up talking about me… never about you."
"What about me?" I ask, confused.
"You came out of a long-term relationship not long ago."
"Almost five weeks," I say proudly. "According to Jess, that's one week more than a girl needs to completely get over a breakup."
"And you agree with her?" He frowns.
"Absolutely," I say.
"Are you saying this because you're afraid I might not let you eat your waffle if you don't?" His tone is playful, but his frown doesn't dissipate entirely.
"Maybe." I play with the top button of his shirt. "Or maybe it's the truth."
It is the truth. At least I think it is. It's hard to think about my time with Michael. Not because it hurts, but because it seems so distant, so elusive. It's as if there's a veil between those days and my present. I know what that veil is made of: the intensity of every minute, every hour I spend with James. Everything before it vanishes in a mist of meaninglessness.
"It'd better be," he caresses my lips with his thumb. "Because I'm all in in this."
It's me who's all weird now when his lips touch mine, and I pray that he can't tell there's something wrong. That he can't feel the fear on my lips, instilled by the wonder of his words.
Words I want so badly to believe. Maybe it's the sound of the rivers around us, the cinnamon and honey in the air, or the fact that I seem to be lost in a fairy tale of my own tonight, but I find it a little easier to believe him now than back at the club.
"You aren't going to eat that waffle any time soon, are you?" he says when we break off.
"Why? Are we in a hurry?" I turn to my waffle. "What's next? A trip to the moon?"
"I was thinking of something less ambitious," he murmurs in my ear, perusing his hand over my thigh, pulling up my dress, "like making love."
"Mmm… I thought that might come up," I tease, leaning my head on his shoulder. "Am I allowed to take more waffles with me for later?"
"If that's the price," he says.
“I’ll be faster if you help me. Come on, grab a waffle.”
We both head to the river carrying one. I also take my plate with me. “No chance for you to taste the chocolate?” I ask as I dip my waffle in the chocolate.
“Nope,” he says, and though his head is lowered, I can see the corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk. I set my waffle aside on the plate on top of the old one.
“Not even if I put it here?” I say, lowering my dress so one nipple shows. I smear chocolate around it with my fingers. He raises his head slowly, biting his lower lip. His eyes are already that shade that tells me he wants me. I dip my fingers in chocolate again and do the same with the other nipple, looking him in the eyes the whole time. A rivulet of sweat oozes on his temple. I lower my eyes to his erection, and the craving inside me awakens instantly, with an almost unbearable urgency. I’m the one biting my lip now, though he hasn’t moved one inch closer to me. I start lowering my dress more and more. And now he does step closer. I let out a moan when his tongue comes in contact with my nipple. He circles it again and again, until all the chocolate is gone and I’m more aroused than ever.
“So you do eat chocolate,” I tease, though my voice is nothing more than a whisper.
“Depends how it’s served,” he utters against my skin.
He moves over to the other nipple and I cry, pulling at his hair, “I want you James.”
His fingers trail up on my inner thigh.
“Touch me, please,” I beg.
“You’re so wet,” he says, touching my sex through my panties. I press against his fingers, in a silent imploration for him to remove the damn panties.
He doesn’t. He removes his fingers completely instead, rising to meet my lips. Not in a kiss, in a brush. He is trembling, his erection against me. I lower my hand and he swallows hard when I touch him.
“No, Serena,” he breathes against my lips. “I don’t want to have you here, like this.” He covers my hand with his, but doesn’t remove it. “I want tonight to be different. Special.”
I look up at him in surprise, then smile. He removes my hand, a sign that whatever plan he has for us is one touch away from crumbling. I take a step back, pulling up my dress.
“Let’s go, then,” I say.
He takes my hand. I grab the plate with waffles with my other hand as he drags me after him.
"Where are we going?" I ask, struggling to keep my plate from bouncing too violently. The last thing I want is my waffles to land on the floor.
"Somewhere where we'll be comfortable."
"The floor between the rivers looked comfortable enough,” I say, feeling my face getting all hot.
I increase my pace, despite the fact that my heels are killing me. A few minutes into our jog, we leave the factory premises behind and enter an office building.
"Wow, these really look comfortable," I say sarcastically, staring at the open space, full of desks and chairs. "And special. How’s this better than the factory?"
"There is no one here."
"What?" I ask, suddenly out of breath. "There were people . . . in the factory?"
He finally stops and I take up the opportunity to lean on a desk and give my feet some relief.
"Don’t worry, no one was watching us,” he says, leaning on the door in front of me. "You didn't think that those rivers would just run the entire night, did you?"
"Right," I mumble. I hadn't given any thought to that. "What friend owns this who would just hand you the keys so we can barge inside in the middle of the night?"
"My family," he smirks.
"You've got your own chocolate factory?" I grin. "You just became the runner-up to being the most awesome person ever."
"Who's got first place?"
"Like I'd tell you."
"Then maybe this will get me number one," he says and pushes open the door behind him.
I expect to find a fancy office, possibly with a mahogany desk and maybe even a lush couch. James doesn't turn on any light, so the only wisp of light in the pitch dark comes from outside the corridor. But it's enough for me to realize that the room couldn't look less like an office.
There is a large bed in the middle of the room—an air mattress, I suspect, but I can't be sure with all the silky covers on it.
James takes my hand and leads me to the bed, gesturing me to sit on it. It really is an air mattress. I watch confused as he walks over to a cabinet. For a few moments I think he's searching for something on its surface, and then I gasp, because he steps aside, revealing a candle. One by one, he lights up twelve candles around the room. My heart gives a jolt with each tiny flame, and I can't do anything but stare at him because I am truly at a loss for words.
When he returns, I get up and put my arms around his neck. They're trembling. As is the rest of me.
"This is perfect," I manage to say.
"You are perfect," he whispers, cupping my face with one hand.
"I am not," I murmur.
"You are perfect, Serena. That's why I—" He stops dead, his eyes fixed on a point on my neck.
A sudden chill creeps up my spine. "That's why you what?"
"I couldn't get you out of my mind," he says, still not raising his gaze. "I went to that bar with Parker and all I was doing was talking about you, and I…"
The chill transforms into a torturous shiver because I know where this is going.
"I don't want to hear this."
"I got scared, Serena. Of what I was feeling, and I—"
"Thought sleeping with Sophie might change that?" I ask bitterly. Why does he want to ruin this night?
"Yes." He takes a deep breath, finally looking up at me. "I wanted to convince myself that you weren't… that I wasn't…"
He grabs me by the waist abruptly, bringing me inches away from his lips. "I was scared
. Confused."
"And now you aren't anymore?" I whisper.
"No. I've never been more certain about anything. You are all I’ve ever wanted. I want to get lost in you."
I almost say the words, but catch myself in time and kiss him instead. Slowly. Deeply. Knowing it is scary enough, but saying I love you out loud…
One of his arms slides up my back and he unzips my dress. I wonder if he can tell. If the impetuous beats of my heart or my quivering lips betray me even though no words come out of them?
I feel like I'm back on that plane, with the door open. Ready to plunge. Ready to abandon myself in the free fall, with no one to trust but him. And as his lips caress my neck I decide to take a plunge again. Even though there's no parachute this time.
I pull the cover over my head as the bright sunlight stabs my eyes without mercy.
"Morning, sleepyhead," a voice calls from somewhere. I stretch my arm and a painful twinge pierces my heart. There's no one beside me. I'm imagining his voice. I imagined everything and am actually in my bed, probably passed out from too much work. But it can't be. The mattress is too soft, the sheets too delicate.
I lower the cover slowly, very slowly, and find James at the foot of the mattress, fully dressed.
"Come on, we've got a long day ahead of us," he grins.
"Just give me a minute," I grumble. "I can't think without a cup of coffee."
"The faster we leave, the faster you'll get coffee."
"I need my phone," I say, pressing the bottom of my palms on my eyes.
A soft thump next to my ear tells me I don't have to search for it anymore. I always read one or two random news articles right after waking up, just to give my eyes something to do so they don't shut themselves again. Of course, the past few days I skipped that in favor of obsessively checking my emails for replies from the myriad of applications I sent. And even though it's Sunday, I open my mailbox instead of browsing on news sites.
I instantly leap in a sitting position. "I can't believe this," I yelp.
"You won the lottery?" James chuckles.
"I just received a rejection." I stare at the email in disbelief. "It's not even one of those automatic replies. Someone actually took his time to write this on a Sunday. Man, they must have really hated me. Who the hell sends rejection emails on a Sunday?"
"Somebody you don't want to work for, trust me," James says.
I smile, repeating to myself, as I do every time such an email arrives, that it's not that much of a setback. I've still got tons of applications out. But it’s hard to remove the image of hot oil splattering on me, while I flip burgers at McDonald’s. Who am I kidding? With my spectacular non-cooking skills, they’d fire me in a day. No, I must stay positive. But with each rejection, I can’t help feeling my dream of a bright future slipping further and further away. Isn’t this what college was supposed to do? Ensure I don’t end up jobless? I always studied hard. I never failed an exam. Not once. But there’s always a first. I had just hoped my first one would not be not landing a job.
“You should really make use of your computer science minor and apply for jobs in that area as well. It would widen your options.”
I sigh. This is something I’ve tried very hard to avoid, since I’m not really into computer science at all. I was just too proud to drop it as a minor. But I know James is right. And anything is better than flipping burgers.
James seats himself next to me, holding up the paper plate. There's only one waffle on it.
"You ate one of my waffles," I accuse. I decide not to bring up the email again. There are a million more pleasant things I can say and do on my first day as… his girlfriend, as he called me last night before we both fell asleep. Just saying the word to myself brings a warm, fluttering feeling. Just in my stomach at first, but then it spreads up to my chest and throat with a dazzling, elevating power. I wonder how weird it would look if I would suddenly hug him now.
Very weird, probably, so I just sit back, taking in as much of him as my eyes allow.
"I'm starving," he says.
I take a bite, but the cold waffle tastes a hundred times more disappointing than I imagined it would when I decided last night I was really too full and that I'd better leave it for breakfast.
"You do know I can't go anywhere dressed in that in broad daylight, don’t you?" I point to the black dress on the floor, because his impatient smirk tells me he has the whole day planned out.
He kisses me sweet and soft, with a restrained urgency that wipes away every thought of the email, or anything else, really.
"Wearing nothing suits you best anyway," he says mockingly when we break off, taking another bite from the waffle.
I stick out my tongue, and grudgingly get out of bed. It takes me about five minutes to get fully dressed, and by the time I'm done, I feel more naked than when I had nothing on.
"Should we clean up?" I ask, looking around at the melted candles.
"The cleaning personnel will do it. Let's go."
I take one last look at the room from the doorway, wishing to remember every detail; the sanctuary of the first night in which our kisses and caresses were preludes to much more than reckless passion.
As if knowing what I'm thinking, he whispers in my ear, "There will be more nights like this, I promise."
I smile and let him drag me through the sea of desks.
My phone starts buzzing when we reach the car, and I manage to get it as I slide in the car.
Jess is calling. I press answer just as James starts the engine and the voice at the other end of the invisible line instantly alerts me that there's something wrong. Very, very wrong.
"Parker? Why do you have Jess's phone?"
"Don't panic, please," he says in a tone that screams for me to panic. "I'm with her at the hospital."
A paralyzing coldness takes over every limb, every organ, every thought, as if I've just fallen into the depths of a melting iceberg.
It's only after a long pause that I manage to mumble, "What happened to her?"
"The moron she was with last night… I'll explain everything when you get here."
I dig my nails deep into my palm. "Which hospital are you in?"
"The one where you volunteer. We're on the fourth floor."
"I'll be there as soon as possible."
I close the phone and turn to a concerned James. "How fast can you drive?"
Hospitals used to terrify me. When I was six, I sliced my knee open on the playground, and kept it a secret from everyone, including Kate, for two whole days, using kitchen towels as bandages. I gave in to fever on the third day. Mum nearly fainted when she discovered the infected wound.
I despised hospitals and their incompetent doctors after Kate's death. But I despised them in a masochistic, self-flagellating manner that made me return to care for those who were confined inside them. I eventually accepted that Kate's death was not the doctors' fault. What can doctors do for someone who flirted with death so often?
Now, as I look at the concrete building towering over me, I'm terrified again. And I pray that I won't be forced to despise them once more.
I barely feel James's arm over my shoulders as we walk in. I stopped hearing him a while ago in the car.
Dani greets us as we get out of the elevator on the fourth floor.
"Where's Jess?" I ask.
"They're doing her some tests right now, you can't see her," Dani says.
"What happened?" James asks, looking at Dani concerned, scanning her as if checking to see if she has all her limbs.
"I don't know," Dani mumbles, staring at her feet.
"Dani?" I press.
"I really don't. I was outside the club talking to… someone."
James instantly tenses up.
"Yes, a guy," I say impatiently. "Please continue."
"There was some kind of fight inside the club."
"The moron Jessica was with started it," Parker says, appearing from a narrow corridor. "The whole place
was in chaos before long."
I gasp. He's got a black eye, and his lower lip is split. I'm suddenly not sure anymore that I want to see Jess right now.
"What happened to Jess?" I ask.
Parker looks from James to me, then says quietly. "She fell through a glass wall behind the bar. There was a ladder on the other side."
I cover my mouth with both hands. James puts a comforting arm around me.
"How is she now?" he asks.
"No idea," Parker says, obviously frustrated. "They won't tell you anything if you're not part of the family. The doctor talked to her mother, but she doesn't seem capable of talking."
"Jess's mother is here?"
"I found her number in Jess's phone and called her," Dani explains.
"I think you should talk to her," Parker says.
Dani looks at me wide-eyed, balancing from one foot to the other. I nod. She leads me through the labyrinth of corridors until we reach a waiting room. There are only two people in it. An elderly woman, reading what looks like the Bible.
And one of the dearest people to me, Jess's mother. She's curled into a seat, her thin frame looking more fragile than ever. She's staring into space, twisting a strand of hair between her fingers.
"Mrs. Haydn?" I call, sitting next to her.
"My poor girl," she says almost inaudibly.
I take her free hand between my palms and rub it energetically because it's ice cold.
"What did the doctor tell you?"
"Two broken ribs, a collapsed lung and her left leg is fractured. I saw her before they took her for some more tests, I never—"
"Where is Mr. Haydn?" I interrupt, because her voice trembles to the point of breaking.
"His boss couldn't find someone to replace his Sunday shift so he didn't allow him to take the day off." She breaks into tears.
I stare at her, searching for the right words, any words really, that might comfort her. But the truth is I've never really been able to comfort anyone. My words have a habit of transforming completely on their way out of my mouth, losing all their meaning, so I put my arm around her shoulders in a tender embrace, hoping the gesture conveys everything I don't say.
